


fate and circumstance

by gazing



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Writing & Publishing, Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, Dark, Dysfunctional Relationships, M/M, Magical Realism, Murder, Mutual Pining, Mystery, Romance, Strangers to Lovers, Surreal, Weirdness, its hannigram after all, so dark its black lmao
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-28
Updated: 2020-12-28
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:53:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28388835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gazing/pseuds/gazing
Summary: When Hannibal Lecter walks into Will's cafe for the first time, a teacup on the counter shatters.At the time Will thought of it as nothing particularly interesting, the way he thought of the man in the suit as not particularly interesting, but later he will think of it as the beginning.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 4
Kudos: 54





	fate and circumstance

When Hannibal Lecter walks into Will's cafe for the first time, a teacup on the counter shatters.

At the time Will thought of it as nothing particularly interesting, the way he thought of the man in the suit as not particularly interesting, but later he will think of it as the beginning. A teacup had shattered on its own, as if crushed between the phantom fingers of an invisible hand, and pieces of it had fallen onto the carpet with a soft thump that could not be heard over the rain outside.

Will had looked up from cleaning a table. He was clad in his apron, weary and disgruntled. He had not known then that it was the beginning, but he would in time.

*

What Will Graham doesn't know is that the _real_ beginning occurred long before the teacup shattered.

It was not when Hannibal stepped into the cafe that their story began. Rather, it was a warmer afternoon, when the sun was close to the horizon but still bright enough to cast shadows in the street. Hannibal's suit had clung to him, fitted to perfection by his favourite Tailor's. He had been walking home from the office with his colleague, Bedelia du Maurier, walking quickly beside him.

"Think about it." She was saying. The woman was angling for him to partner with her on a project that she called _life changing_ but what he called a bore. Being a publisher was about choosing your authors well, and Hannibal liked to do this independently of others. "The two of us would be perfect-"

Hannibal has grown talented in the skill of tuning people out. He listens to the sounds of the city around them, cars and buskers with guitars and long lines of people in mindless conversations. His footsteps are in time with Bedelia's but they are not at the same pace, he thinks, for she hurries to keep her speed similar to his own. It would be endearing, to another person. It inspires no emotion in Hannibal.

"And I really think that-" Bedelia continues, and he glances to his left, looking for hidden gems amongst the lines of department stores and designer brands. "If you would be so kind as to-"

He's bored. It is, and always has been, a problem Hannibal fails to solve. _Boredom._ He has found solutions to most of life's problems but it is _boredom_ that always eludes him, an answer just out of grasp taunting him for what feels like eternity. There is not much to be entertained by in a regular life, is there, he thinks. In fact, Hannibal thinks that in most cases nobody is ever really entertained. That is what art is for, and books and the television - somewhat an escape from a boring old world.

"So if you are interested, which I hope you are-" Bedelia says, and Hannibal sighs, and this is the beginning. This is when his eyes catch on the tiny little cafe to his left that looks so old fashioned and delicate that it makes him pause. How has he never seen it before?

_Graham's,_ it's called, the name written on a plaque above the door. Simple, Hannibal thinks, and rather unsightly. Usually such a place would make him purse his lips. It's completely mismatched. The colour of the walls does not match the carpet and the paintings have been, Hannibal decides, chosen at random. The potted plants outside are not the right distance apart and the only thing pleasant about the place is the aroma drifting towards him through the door, which is cracked open.

This is not what captures Hannibal's attention. There is a man, at the counter, reading lazily from a book. Everything about him is messy, overgrown, boring. His feet are _propped up on the counter,_ for goodness sake. But Hannibal takes an interest in him. How did this cafe come to be? Who is this man? What is this pull towards him Hannibal feels?

"Hannibal?" Bedelia asks.

Hannibal shakes his head as if coming out of the grips of a spell and smiles politely at his colleague.

"Apologies, Bedelia." He says, stepping away from the cafe. Strangely, his foot had been on the doorstep as if he were about to enter. He does not remember making the movement. Yet somehow, he did. Hannibal is no longer bored. "Please, continue."

That, Hannibal knows, was the beginning. 

For weeks after that he'd gaze into the shop on his way home. After a month or so he would sit there for hours, staring into it, just a shadow on the edge of the pavement or, more often, hiding behind a tree. He wanted to figure out the mystery that had crawled onto his shoulders. He wanted to _know,_ somehow, what the story was behind this place.

After all, Hannibal is a publisher. He _knows_ good stories, fulfilling stories, and he can spot one from a mile away. This, he thinks, might be his most interesting yet.

This was where their tale began.

*

For Will it begins on a Thursday afternoon and he is, as he always seems to be, weary and without much inspiration.

In fact as he leans over the table, scrubbing it so hard his hands become red raw and start to bleed, Will thinks as the days go on they become more and more grey, like a permanent sky about to rain. There isn't much here to entertain him. Most people never step foot in this place, apart from the regulars.

Jack Crawford, for instance, is sitting by the window today. He comes every week. But he isn't particularly interesting and though he always engages Will in conversation, Will finds he prefers the silence over Crawford's incessant rambling. It is not that Will hates people, it's that he hates _most_ of them, and he finds the company of strangers even worse than the exhaustion and boredom that follows him around like an old dark cloud. Funny, how he craves company until he has it, and then it is detestable.

Why, then, had he opened a cafe? Well, the police had fired him for what they called _dangerous behaviour_ and there wasn't much for him to do, apart from wallow in self pity at home. At the time he had found the empty space on the high street and it had been a logical idea. Cafes, Will considered, were much more popular than a shop for fishing supplies, which was what he had originally considered.

Will feels trapped in the place now, though. After almost a decade here it has become his least favourite place, and yet the cafe is the only place he feels comfortable in. A strange paradox, he thinks, but it's true. He is rubbing the table so hard it draws blood from his knuckles, though Will doesn't notice the pain.

Not until the the door opens.

Will knows this because there's a gust of a cold breeze. He looks up, irritated and on the edge of a scream. The man in the doorway is in this obnoxious black suit, that seems to fit perfectly over his shoulders, and he looks at Will with a curiousity that Will doesn't understand.

That is when the teacup shatters. Yes, Will thinks later, it had happened like that. Hannibal had stepped inside from the cold, and there had been a quiet sound. Pieces of fine china had slipped to the carpet, broken by an invisible force.

With a sigh Will walks over to the counter and stands idly behind it. The man wanders slowly through the cafe, peering up at the walls as if in a museum, and Will taps his foot impatiently. By the time he reaches the counter Will is gritting his teeth.

"What would you like?" He asks.

The man picks up the pieces of teacup from the carpet and rests them carefully on the counter. Will gets a wave of deja vu he doesn't understant.

"What would you recommended?" He gives Will a small smile that Will, of course, refuses to return.

"Dunno. What do people buy in cafes?"

The man's eyes twinkle as if something is particularly funny. He runs a hand over the broken pieces of china.

"Look, a teacup seems to have broken."

Will looks down at the thing with disinterest.

"Looks like it." Will sighs, "So what do you want?"

"A pot of tea will do, I think." The man says.

"£2.50."

The man gives him the perfect amount of change. As expected, Will thinks, reaching his hand to take the money. As he does so the man takes Will's hand in his own cold, slender fingers and peers down at his knuckles. They're bleeding so much Will's fingers are stained red.

"What happened here?" He asks, "That looks painful."

"Don't touch me." Will pulls his hand away, but not before the man folds his fingers over the change. Afterwards Will stretches his hand, and his knuckles sting painfully, blooming red. He feels as if it looks different, as if moulded by the man's touch.

The man gives him a nod and goes to sit by the window. Will thinks of a river, far away, where he had felt at peace. He longs for the day to end. For all of his days to simply end.

*

And so it begins, like this, with a wounded handed.

Hannibal had been rather bold, stepping into the store for the first time like that. He thinks of their first meeting later with pleasure - he had been exploring the story of that cafe from the very beginning, with a directness that cut through Will Graham's tired, hazy face. As if combing through the pages of a novel he had opened up their life together, just like that.

When Hannibal eventually steps into the place again nothing shatters. But he leaves the door open without realising it - an uncommon occurrence, for him, for being polite is one of his core values. Hannibal had just been far too excited to notice. And, on its own, it had slammed behind him, so hard that Hannibal thought its glass might shatter.

"Strange." He murmurs.

The man who owns the cafe hasn't even blinked. He's gazing down into a novel, and, Hannibal supposes, perhaps that's _his_ escape. With a smile Hannibal steps towards him, that same curiousity flickering inside of him. Hello, it says, _who are you?_ He wants to figure out the answer, and quickly.

"Hello." Hannibal says. The man doesn't respond. Hannibal hates impoliteness, yet now he is just endeared, interested. He plucks the book from the man's hands. It feels like taking the man's hand had - like intimacy. If he forces it, will the man tell him everything about this strange place? Will he explain to Hannibal why he keeps coming back here?

"What are you-" The man's face contorts into a scowl when he sees Hannibal. "Oh. It's _you_."

"Has anyone ever told you how friendly you are?" Hannibal laughs.

The man grumbles to himself and takes back the book.

"What can I get for you?" He hisses. He is, for all intents and purposes, the most unpleasant man Hannibal has ever met. Unfortunately, this does not put Hannibal off. Quite the contrary.

"I published that novel." Hannibal lies easily.

The man's face flickers with interest.

"You did?"

"Certainly. My name," Hannibal smiles, "Is Hannibal Lecter. I specialise in crime fiction."

He actually specialises in biographies, but it's no matter. The man blinks at him, and gives him a nod of acknowledgement. He seems slightly unreal, behind the counter. The cafe is shabby. The man's outfit is old and oversized, a patched up sweater pulled over faded jeans. What are those red stains, on the front, he thinks? And what is going on, Hannibal thinks, in this curious little place?

"Will Graham." Will says, "Now what would you like?"

"Another pot of tea." He decides, though the last had been weak and had tasted unpleasant. Once the transaction is complete he strides to the other side of the cafe and sits down.

Hannibal dislikes the seating arrangements in the cafe. He finds it irritating how the chair is just a little too much to the left, out of line with the others. Across from him there is a larger man, who had been there last time, and a woman with dark hair on the table near him, scribbling enthusiastically into a book

Will brings him the tray and puts it loudly onto the table. Hannibal winces.

"Here." He says, and turns.

"Will?" Hannibal asks. "What is the story, of this place?"

Will looks back at him, bewildered.

"The what?"

"Nevermind." Hannibal takes a sip of tea, and grimaces. Will's mouth twitches with amusement at the sight. Interesting, Hannibal thinks. "I will figure it out on my own."

"You're really fucking weird." Will says, which is more, Hannibal thinks, than he's ever said to Hannibal before. It is direct. It pleases Hannibal. "Do you know that?"

"That makes two of us." Hannibal says, and gives him a crooked smile.

*

Will does not notice anything strange is happening until Hannibal steps inside of the cafe one day and the lights flicker off.

It is late, that day. This is an evening in winter when the sun sets early and no longer leaves sunkissed shadows in the café. When the door opens there is a silence and then they are plunged into darkness. It is like the whole world is absent of colour. Will stands there unable to see his own hands in front of his face and wonders why, and how, and when. It is then that he realises that he can't remember the last time he stepped foot outside of the café.

The lights flicker back on.

Hannibal is there, as he always is. Will is getting used to the man showing up whenever he likes, wandering inside of the café like it is his home. He'll sit there in a chair drinking his tea, staring curiously around the room, and Will doesn't know whether the guy is strange, insane, or bored. He thinks it might be a mix of the three.

"Good evening, Will." He says warmly, leaning over the counter, sharp jaws but soft eyes. Will does not understand him. He does not know what the urge is inside of him to brush the man's hair away from those eyes.

"Hello, Hannibal." Will sighs. "Tea?"

He doesn't know why he asks.

"Where are the regulars?" Hannibal asks.

"At home, I presume."

"Hm." Hannibal is leaning on his arms and Will doesn't think he'll be moving from the counter anytime soon. It feels like an interrogation. "Tell me about them."

"There's Jack Crawford. He knows me from the police force. Keeps coming out of a sense of duty, I think." Hannibal gives him an imploring look, and Will shrugs. "He feels guilty that I was sacked."

"Fascinating." Hannibal drawls, but knowing him, Will thinks, he probably does find it fascinating. "And the girl?"

"I don't know. I think she's a student. Beverely, I think her name was. She reminds me of me, when I was her age."

"They keep you grounded here." Hannibal murmurs.

"What?"

"Do you have any other customers?" Hannibal asks evasively.

Will blinks.

Does he?

"I... don't know." Will shakes his head, "I mean, yeah, but it's pretty quiet here."

"In the middle of the high street, and you're not that busy, though you're the only café for a few blocks." Hannibal taps his finger on the counter, "This is what drew me here, at first. This café was so _empty._ Why is it so quiet, Will?"

The questions prods at him. Will feels as if he might melt into the carpet any second now - he feels unreal, dissociated, like the world is about to fade from underneath his feet. Hannibal's eyes are so clear, yet he feels lost in them.

"There is a novel here, I think." Hannibal smiles.

"Don't publish it." Will warns, with his mouth curved into a smile. He is getting far too comfortable in this man's company.

"Have you noticed it?" Hannibal leans across the counter, speaking in a hushed whisper. "You seem to be breaking things, Will. Without even touching them."

Yes, yes, Will thinks, unsteady. The teacup. The door about to smash. The café plunged into the darkness.

"What's next?" Hannibal says, a twinkle in his eye.

Will blinks. He does not want to reply to the question. He fears what the answer is.

*

The story reached its climax, Hannibal decides later, on an early morning. Under the pale sunshine is when the tale begins to unravel like a tightly bound knot.

Until this morning Hannibal had been making little progress. He had no conclusions as to why the café existed and who Will Graham was and, most importantly, where this novel would end. The ending was the most important part of a good narrative, after all.

Worst of all, Hannibal had begun to hope, against his better judgement, that he could become tied up in this story. That _he_ could be a main character. It was not his story, and yet, perhaps it could become his own.

These thoughts had been pressing at the edges of Hannibal's mind. He had been tapping his pen on his office desk, clicking it on and off and on and off. This, Hannibal realised later, was not _his_ habit. He was irritated by people who fidgeted like this. This was _Will Graham's_ habit. Will had followed him to his office on the other side of the city.

"Penny for them?" Bedelia's voice drawls, from her cubicle.

"I'm sorry?"

"Penny for your thoughts." She leans back on her chair and looks pointedly at his hands. "You've been doing that for a while now."

"Apologies. "Hannibal smiles, "Bedelia, do you remember that little café on the high street?"

Bedelia blinks.

"I don't recall it." Bedelia says, "Set the scene."

"A few months ago. We were walking back from the office, it was sunset, and I paused in front of it. Do you remember?"

Bedelia frowns.

"I do remember a time when you stopped under the sunset, but that was- that was in front of an abandoned building, Hannibal. There was a café there, but it closed down years ago." Bedelia considers him, "Do you mean that place beside the barber shop?"

Hannibal blinks.

"Yes."

"I was asking you about partnering on my project?"

"Yes, exactly."

Bedelia looks bewildered.

"There's no café there anymore. There hasn't been for a long time."

Hannibal's eyes widen, just a little. The story, he thinks, is far more interesting than he thought it would be. With a grin he turns to the computer and types _Will Graham café_ into the search bar. Perhaps this should have occurred to him weeks ago, but Hannibal had always been old fashioned. He wanted to figure this out on his own. The only reason he is searching now is because he's far too curious to hold back.

There it is. Hundreds of newspaper articles, all of them detailing-

_I've got you,_ Hannibal thinks _, buzzing_ with excitement.

*

Something is wrong with him.

Will realises this one late afternoon. There is sunlight everywhere, filling the café with a warmth and light and making his eyes sting. He had been reading a novel he's read a hundred, thousand times before, and he has the strange sensation that there is something... off, about everything. He pauses. He touches the pages of the book and they feel real under his fingers. So what-

Then Hannibal bursts inside, with this cheshire cat smile on his face. And as he does, all of the glass in the café shatters.

The glass doors. The huge windows. Even the glasses perched on the end of Will's nose. And the strangest part is that Beverley and Jack don't even look up. They just stay in those same positions, drinking and writing and reading and- Will must be going mad. It's the only explanation.

Hannibal looks around him at the small shards of glass on the floor around him and his grin _widens._ There are spots of blood blooming all over his face - much of the glass had hit him there. He walks quickly over to the counter with eyes as bright as the sun reflecting on the glass and casting faded rainbows all around them.

"Will!" He exclaims.

Will looks around him, trembling.

"What's happening to me?" He asks, in a small voice.

Hannibal leans over the counter, as he always does.

"Well, you see-" Then he pauses. He looks around the café with a sort of wonder and shakes his head as if to say, _no, no, leave it._

"Do you know something?" Will asks desperately. "Do you understand what's going on?"

Hannibal runs a hand over his face and the small pinpoints of blood smudge over his skin. Will blinks. Blinks again. He reaches forward and touches the blood on Hannibal's cheeks, and the pads of his fingers come away scarlet. _Oh,_ he thinks. His mind breathes the word. He has felt so unreal for so long that the touch of blood on his fingers is warm and fresh and very, very real.

"Tea, please." Hannibal says, and Will blinks at him. Hannibal's smile is sort of infectious. He understands nothing, and smiles back.

*

Hannibal had almost told him.

He had almost explained everything to Will. Then he had looked around at the pieces of broken glass and how they reflected the sun. He had felt the sting of pain on his face. He had thought, _no._ He wanted the story to end properly. He was... curious. Curious what would happen.

Every day after the revelation is so far from boredom that Hannibal has forgotten what it feels like. He walks around like he's on air. It's so obvious that Bedelia clearly notices and assumes he's finally found a lover to take up his time. It is almost true, Hannibal thinks. After all, when he had _realised_ what exactly was going on with Will Graham, he had felt something akin to falling in love.

"You seem happy, lately." Will says, one day.

Hannibal smiles. The tables of the café had crashed to the floor when he entered the room. Beverley and Jack are sitting on the carpet in the rubble and remnants of their tables as if nothing has happened. The windows are empty of glass, even now. Hannibal feels as if he's burning up with excitement.

"Happiness, Will." Hannibal says, "Do you know it?"

Will pauses.

"I can't remember the last time I felt it."

Hannibal's eyes taken on a knowing glint.

"Yes, I understand." He says, "I'll confess something to you. There is only one thing in the world that brings me happiness."

"What is that?"

"Stories." Hannibal breathes.

Will considers him. His hair is falling over his dark eyes, lips pursed with thought as he gazes at Hannibal. Hannibal thinks him beautiful, for he _understands_ him now, and that is the feeling he has craved for so very long. He understands people easily, but they have never interested him. Not until Will Graham.

"And you, Will. What is the thing that brings you happiness?"

Will looks around at his run down café.

"I don't know." He admits.

"The destruction you cause," Hannibal says, "Is that it?"

The café is falling apart. There is not a lot of time left, Hannibal presumes. There's no harm in spoiling the ending just a little, is there?

"Is it the people in here?" Hannibal asks pointedly. He turns to them. "Do you like them, Will?"

Will shrugs.

"Not really." He says, "I don't like anyone."

"No one?"

Will ducks his head. Hannibal thinks he feels more solid, more real, when he answers the question. Sometimes Hannibal secretly fears the man will disappear into the air and never return.

"I like you."

"Yes." Hannibal smiles, pleased. The moment is peaceful. For a moment Hannibal forgets what is ahead. "But them, you dislike?"

"So very much. Actually, sometimes, instead of objects, I wish I could break-" Will swallows, shakes his head. "It doesn't matter."

Hannibal knows what he was about to say. _People._

"The story isn't over yet."

Will sighs, long and worn out. How long has he been here, Hannibal thinks sadly, waiting to be set free?

"Won't you tell me how this ends, Hannibal?" Will asks.

"No."

_"Why not?"_

Hannibal's smile takes on a cold glint.

"Because it's more fun this way."

*

If this is to be a story, Will thinks when Hannibal enters the café one evening, then it is not a pleasant one.

There are blood stains on the carpet. Will steps through them, the liquid squelching under his shoes as he does so, and sticking to the sole of his shoes. There are two bodies at the centre of the café. They fit in here, he thinks, almost amused. There is no glass in the windows, the tables are broken in two as if bodies slammed upon them, there is a shattered teacup on the counter. The lights flicker on and off.

The bodies are... beaten. Their faces are almost unrecognisable, as if mutilated in a fit of passion. Will leans down and sees dark hair and familiar outfits. Beverley and Jack, he realises.

Curiously, he does not feel disgusted. He's not even scared. Will runs his hands over their faces and his hands are stained with blood and he feels nothing. Nothing but happiness.

"Will." Hannibal says softly.

He steps over the bodies towards him. Will looks up from where he's kneeling by the corpses to see Hannibal smiling brightly at him, as if proud. He is like moonlight: clear, cold. Blood stains the hem of his trousers as he steps through the carnage.

"I knew you'd do it." Hannibal breathes. It is a gasp of wonder. He looks completely in love with Will. It's strange, Will thinks, he's so fucking weird.

"You did this." Will says weakly.

"No, Will. It was you." Hannibal tilts his head. He reaches forward and takes Will's hands, like he did when he observed Will's bleeding knuckles. _Wait,_ Will thinks, awed. They're bleeding now too, as if having beaten someone. "See the blood on your knuckles? See the blood under your nails?"

"I don't understand."

"You will." Hannibal leans down and presses a warm kiss to Will's damaged knuckles. "And when you escape from here, come and find me. I'll be waiting, Will."

Hannibal rises to his feet. He smiles one last time at the corpses and then turns.

"Hannibal." Will calls to him. "Help me."

Hannibal turns his head.

"Will." He says warmly, "I'm so proud of you."

Then he's gone.

Will is left surrounded by blood and death and his broken café feels.. old. It's so fucking old, he thinks.

"I don't understand." He murmurs, into the darkness.

He hears Hannibal's voice in his mind.

"Then treat it like a story." Hannibal murmurs to him.

First, Will thinks, first it had been the shattered teacup. That was the beginning.

And oh. _Oh._ Will remembers that teacup. Jack had- Jack had dropped it in front of the counter, one day a long long time ago, and Will had been so angry. He had been so tired of his life. And he'd- Will stops. He can't remember.

"The door?" Hannibal asks.

Oh, yes. That's it. Will had been gathering up the remnants of shattered teacup on the carpet when the door had slammed and Will had thought it might shatter. Beverley had been standing there in the doorway, laughing on the phone about something. He'd hated her, too, in those moments. He had not been himself.

No, Will thinks. He had been the most _himself_ he had ever been.

"The lights?"

Yes, that had been the most irritating of nights, he thinks. There had been a power cut in the city but the emergency lights had broken down and the result was flickering lights. God, Will thinks, it had been overwhelming. So annoying. He had just wanted it to end.

"The shattered glass?"

Yes, yes. Will had thrown his tray and it had hit the window. The glass there had shattered. Fallen onto Beverley's face. She'd been bleeding, the same way Hannibal had, pin pricks of blood on her cheeks

"The broken tables?"

He had snapped. Seeing the blood, feeling exhaustion and anger, he had thrown himself over the counter and slammed Jack into a table.

"Your knuckles." Hannibal whispers. Will feels the ghost of a touch across his wounded fingers.

He had beaten them to death. Their misshapen, terrified faces had come in and out of focus as the lights flickered on and off.

"The corpses."

And the headlines the next day had been _two dead in café on the high street._ Those were the headlines Hannibal had seen, that day on the computer. And he had understood what sort of story this was.

"Will Graham." Will says to himself.

Dangerous behaviour, they'd said, when his police badge was taken from him. He had shot a criminal to death on a particularly stressful case, and the inquest had found the man had been defenceless. So Will opened the café. But he was so tired. He was so angry. He wanted-

He wanted destruction.

They'd executed Will with the lethal injection for his crimes. Will had known the officer who put him to death. It was ironic, Will had thought, right before he died.

"Oh." Will says. He smiles for the first time in what feels like eternity.

How long had he been in this café, reliving the same boring, horrific days over and over again? It was kind of funny, Will thinks. He'd killed to escape his life and because of it he'd become a ghost trapped in his worst nightmare for years, as if in punishment. It was his personal hell. And Hannibal had walked in and saved him from it.

Curious, Will steps over the corpses and towards the door. He doesn't know if he'll be able to escape. But when he pushes open the door without glass, cold hair hits his face.

*

Hannibal is grinning to himself as he scrolls through his laptop.

The bed is comfortable underneath him, but he doesn't notice it. He doesn't notice anything at all. His mind keeps flickering back to that night, in the café, with the motionless bodies lying around Will's feet, and the blood on his hands, and the light in his eyes.

It was the ending Hannibal had been hoping for all along.

He reads over the articles again. He had never found a story that captured him this deeply, and he has been searching for a long time. The articles are old and many are simplistic but they had made their point. Will Graham had slaughtered his regular customers in cold blood - beaten them, beyond recognition - and had received the death penalty for it.

Well, Hannibal thinks smugly, what died didn't stay dead.

Hannibal was jealous of Will. He'd lived his life to the fullest by the end, and had escaped the boredom that infiltrated Hannibal's life so deeply. Was that why Hannibal was able to step into that café that wasn't even real? He wonders.

No matter the reason, Hannibal thinks, this is a story he'll always treasure.

There is a knock at his apartment door.

_Will,_ Hannibal thinks, laughing loudly as he jumps from the bed. He's giddy with happiness, with an excitement he's growing used to now. Will Graham has made him- made him feel _alive._ The irony of it is not lost on Hannibal but then, this is an ironic tale.

Hannibal pulls open the door with a flourish.

"Hello, Hannibal." Will says.

He's replaced those shabby clothes with a suit not unlike Hannibal's. His hair is slicked back in a similar way, too. His eyes glint, his smile cruel, and Hannibal has finally found him. The _real_ Will Graham. The most interesting part is that Will's hands are still bleeding. He has changed everything, but kept that the same.

"Will." Hannibal breathes. "Do you understand, now?"

"I know who I am." Will keeps smiling. It's strange, Hannibal thinks. He never used to smile. "Finally. Thanks to you."

Hannibal's smile grows pleased.

"It was not just me. You realised who you were on your own.”

"No." Will says, "It _was_ you. I would have been trapped in that place forever, if you hadn't stepped inside. The teacup shattered when you found me. Thank you."

"I had faith in you." Hannibal says, "From the moment I realised the truth, I've believed you could one day escape. You have so much potential, Will."

Will considers him. He leans in the doorway, black as the night, a wonderfully villainous ghost. Hannibal thinks he's the greatest antagonist ever created. He thinks he might be in love with him.

"There is one part of this story I don't understand." Will says. "How could you see me? How did you find me?"

"I have been curious about this myself." Hannibal admits. "But I think it's because... we are the same, Will. When your café appeared in front of me I was as bored and exhausted as I imagine you were, trapped in that café. It was as if I became you, and thus I could see what you saw."

"We are conjoined."

"Yes. You know, Will, that I am a publisher." Hannibal says, "I saw a story in you. It turned out to be the most glorious ever written. I am just unsure whether you or I wrote it."

Will's smile widens.

"You _are_ really fucking strange." He says, "I knew it from the moment I saw you. Why do you delight in this? You weren't repulsed by the dead. You were _excited_. I saw it, in your eyes."

"I told you, Will." Hannibal says, his eyes twinkling, "I am you."

"You wanted this, didn't you? You wanted me to remember. You wanted me to see those bodies. You wanted me to come here."

"Yes." Hannibal reaches out and presses a hand to Will's cheek. It's cold under his palm. Will leans into it. He's a miracle, Hannibal thinks. "I wanted you to be free. I wished that I could free you from this, and I did. _We_ did.”

“All I can ask is why?” Will reaches up his hand and lays it over Hannibal’s, staining it with blood. “You mad bastard. _Why_?"

“I love you.” Hannibal says. “At first I was curious about you. Then I found out the truth I was awed by you. If you allow me to be metaphorical, Will, then started as your story, but it became mine too.”

“It wasn’t a story, until you.” Will says, “It was just repetition. Without you I’d have lived a million years without ever escaping.”

“Oh, no.” Hannibal says. His eyes flutter shut, savouring the touch, the moment. “You would have found out on your own. Do not underestimate yourself.”

“The teacup shattered.” Will murmured, “And then I came back to myself.”

Hannibal leans forward and kisses Will. He tastes of blood. Of the future.

“The story isn’t finished.” Hannibal says, smiling.

“Oh?” Will asks, but his eyes glint. He knows as well as Hannibal that this is just the beginning of another tale.

Hannibal steps backwards, through the doorway. Will follows.

“I wish to live as you do.” Hannibal says, hushed. “Without boredom, or misery. With true passion. I wish to feel blood on my hands just as you did.”

Will’s eyes glint coldly in the darkness, a reflection of Hannibal’s.

“Then let’s continue the story.” He says.

He steps inside, pushing Hannibal backwards.

The door slams shut behind them, though no one is touching it.


End file.
